Cowpie Zombie
First Post
Milwood, England.
Wednesday, December 2, 2004.
8:56 p.m.
You make a mental note: never come to England in the winter. The rain has been pouring for what seems like weeks. Maybe if you were in London it would be a bit more bearable, but here you are in Milwood, a depressing backwater town 100 miles from nowhere, a town that makes the rest of northern England look good (and that's saying something).
You felt uneasy the moment you entered this town. Dirt roads (mud now), crumbling brick buildings, cars with half-rusted bodies parked haphazardly in front of deserted storefronts. Children (the few you've seen) with dirty faces and ragged clothes, like something from Somalia or the Balkans--or maybe a Dickens novel.
Whereas most of the people you've met in England have been friendly, the people in Milwood have been...different. You can't really say "rude", because rudeness implies a certain deliberateness, a certain aggression, and the people of Milwood don't seem deliberate or aggressive about anything. Vacant, more like it. Distant. And sad. Their faces drawn, pale, dark circles under their eyes, teeth yellow and, in some cases, brown.
You can't wait to get the hell out of this town.
After being told by blank-faced townspeople that there are no inns or bed-and-breakfasts (and certainly no hotels) in Milwood, you decide--almost with relief--to keep driving. Not having to stay the night in this place is just fine with you. Since it's been a long day, however, and since the rain isn't letting up anytime soon, you decide to spend some time at Charlie, the only pub in this Godforsaken place.
It's a big place, smokey, poorly lit, the smell of beer cigarettes heavy in the air, with a faint suggestion of sweat and body odor. There are about 20 people here in total...and the travellers stick out like sore thumbs.
There are four of you. The first is a man in his mid-twenties, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He has long hair and a wispy beard. Obviously not worried about what the Milwood natives might think of an air of sophistication, he chews absently on a pipe. This is Jim Hollenbach.
The second is a woman, far too feminine and nicely-dressed for Milwood. She looks close to 30 years old, and is dressed rather conservatively, wearing a distinct air of professionalism. Her reddish brown hair sis houlder length, her eyes betray a look of weariness from behind a small pair of glasses. This is Joyce Minton.
The third is a young man dressed in fatigues and cargo pants. He has at least two cameras with him, and the large camera bag suggests he is a photographer by trade. This is Adam Carsen.
The fourth and final outsider is a stocky young man with thick black hair. He wears a thin pair of spectacles and is unshaven. He fiddles on a laptop computer while sipping a steaming hot cup of hot coffee, his worn and faded New Jersey Devils baseball cap tilted slightly back on his head. This is Tom Mathiessen.
The life in their faces is enough to separate these four from the 20 or so other patrons in the bar, as is their clothing--far too colorful and well-maintained for a resident of Milwood.
Even though you are not sitting together--and, indeed, didn't even enter at the same time--you cannot help but notice each other. In this wretched town, and in this gloomy pub, you feel as different as if you were walking through downtown Hong Kong, surrounded by people of an alien race and culture.
[Basically just setting the scene. You guys can start off by introducing yourselves to each other, pulling up a chair, that kind of thing. Let me know what possessions you have with you, and what you have in your rental car.]
Wednesday, December 2, 2004.
8:56 p.m.
You make a mental note: never come to England in the winter. The rain has been pouring for what seems like weeks. Maybe if you were in London it would be a bit more bearable, but here you are in Milwood, a depressing backwater town 100 miles from nowhere, a town that makes the rest of northern England look good (and that's saying something).
You felt uneasy the moment you entered this town. Dirt roads (mud now), crumbling brick buildings, cars with half-rusted bodies parked haphazardly in front of deserted storefronts. Children (the few you've seen) with dirty faces and ragged clothes, like something from Somalia or the Balkans--or maybe a Dickens novel.
Whereas most of the people you've met in England have been friendly, the people in Milwood have been...different. You can't really say "rude", because rudeness implies a certain deliberateness, a certain aggression, and the people of Milwood don't seem deliberate or aggressive about anything. Vacant, more like it. Distant. And sad. Their faces drawn, pale, dark circles under their eyes, teeth yellow and, in some cases, brown.
You can't wait to get the hell out of this town.
After being told by blank-faced townspeople that there are no inns or bed-and-breakfasts (and certainly no hotels) in Milwood, you decide--almost with relief--to keep driving. Not having to stay the night in this place is just fine with you. Since it's been a long day, however, and since the rain isn't letting up anytime soon, you decide to spend some time at Charlie, the only pub in this Godforsaken place.
It's a big place, smokey, poorly lit, the smell of beer cigarettes heavy in the air, with a faint suggestion of sweat and body odor. There are about 20 people here in total...and the travellers stick out like sore thumbs.
There are four of you. The first is a man in his mid-twenties, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He has long hair and a wispy beard. Obviously not worried about what the Milwood natives might think of an air of sophistication, he chews absently on a pipe. This is Jim Hollenbach.
The second is a woman, far too feminine and nicely-dressed for Milwood. She looks close to 30 years old, and is dressed rather conservatively, wearing a distinct air of professionalism. Her reddish brown hair sis houlder length, her eyes betray a look of weariness from behind a small pair of glasses. This is Joyce Minton.
The third is a young man dressed in fatigues and cargo pants. He has at least two cameras with him, and the large camera bag suggests he is a photographer by trade. This is Adam Carsen.
The fourth and final outsider is a stocky young man with thick black hair. He wears a thin pair of spectacles and is unshaven. He fiddles on a laptop computer while sipping a steaming hot cup of hot coffee, his worn and faded New Jersey Devils baseball cap tilted slightly back on his head. This is Tom Mathiessen.
The life in their faces is enough to separate these four from the 20 or so other patrons in the bar, as is their clothing--far too colorful and well-maintained for a resident of Milwood.
Even though you are not sitting together--and, indeed, didn't even enter at the same time--you cannot help but notice each other. In this wretched town, and in this gloomy pub, you feel as different as if you were walking through downtown Hong Kong, surrounded by people of an alien race and culture.
[Basically just setting the scene. You guys can start off by introducing yourselves to each other, pulling up a chair, that kind of thing. Let me know what possessions you have with you, and what you have in your rental car.]
